


The Performance

by evlrosi



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25483330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evlrosi/pseuds/evlrosi
Summary: Richard Grayson's parents did not die when the trapeze strap snapped during their performance, but were seriously injured. He continues to work as an aerialist, earning money for his family, and one night he has to act in an unusual performance in the "Iceberg" night club. Guest star: Roman Sionis.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	The Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Мой новый номер](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/654832) by evlrosi. 



Intermittent, short dips into black emptiness, between which Dick tossed and turned in bed or went for a drink of water, not knowing what else to do with himself, became his regular night's rest. Having regained consciousness, he rolled over onto his side and groped for his phone under the pillow. The clock on the display read 5:28 AM.  
Every sound in this house was familiar: noise of the water in the pipes, grunting of the moving elevator, neighbors voices and their domestic noises. Now the silence was rippling by soft sobs – his mother was crying.

He jumped to his feet and ran into the living room. Mary stood on a stool, holding a framed photograph taken from the wall: «The Flying Graysons» in their heydays. His father, an athlete with slicked-back hair and a wide, kind smile, held close his slim, beautiful wife dressed in a low-cut jumpsuit with his right hand. Their left hands rested on the shoulders of their son, who was proudly posing in his green, red and gold suit —  
— they were an ideal circus family, but the break of the trapeze and absence of a safety net put an end to the career of aerialists.

— I can't get down, — mother whispered. He wrapped his arm gently around her waist and lifted her down.  
— Father wanted to have a look, — she made wide eyes at the word "Father," and Dick nodded, slightly gritting his teeth. – I thought I would get it myself. Didn't want to wake you up.

The tragedy during the performance in Gotham had ruined everything. John took the brunt of it: a comminuted compression fracture of the cervical spine turned him into a chairbound paraplegic. For the first few years dad had tried to make jokes, to keep himself busy – "he that has a head on his shoulders never dies of boredom" — but his enthusiasm worked itself out until watching TV and swearing were his only amusements left. Mary became a haggard nurse, suffering from guilt and a severe form of acrophobia. Dick continued to perform in the circus, trying to make the most of his talent.  
— You'd better wake me up next time, — he managed a warm smile. — I like to wake up to the sound of your voice.  
The TV was turned on in the next room, and dashing voices of the morning show hosts disrupted the morning. Mother nodded sadly before disappearing through the door with the photo:  
— Make yourself something to eat, my dear. We need to talk before you leave.  
Dick looked around a modest living room, a narrow sofa with a pillow and a crumpled blanket (his parents had long since been sleeping separately), posters with wrinkled or ripped corners stuck on the walls: "Hailey's Circus presents! An acrobatic miracle!”  
Cooking breakfast was easy — just pour cornflakes out of the box and drown them in milk. The conversation with his mother was much more painful.

—

— Did you find something? — He could tell the answer by the glint in her eyes. Mary continued considering ways to put her husband back on his feet even after he himself had lost hope and began to sabotage procedures and swear in response to requests to visit the next doctor. The Director of the Hailey Circus paid them a great sum to smother up the scandal and avoid trial. Dick has always wondered where he had got the money. Their performances never brought so much! He kept brushing off this question though, which had nothing to do with the painful present, in which all the money was spent on an apartment in Bludhaven and years of unsuccessful attempts to help his father.  
— I was browsing through that German doctor's website yesterday, and he's going to be in New York next month... — her voice sounded guilty, heartbreaking. As if Dick had ever refused to give money! As if he didn't want his father to –  
— them all to…  
— It's hard to arrange an appointment with him, but…  
It was supposed Initially that John would stay with his son, but Mary could no longer perform, and the earnings outside the circus did not cover even a quarter of their expenses, so Dick returned to suspension devices and rings for aerial acrobatics: he invented simple performances and showed them at holidays and weddings where the audience regularly needed "a break for a drink".  
Once, after an act, he was intercepted by an expensively dressed man who offered him "a job in a private circus." It was obvious by his intonations that this was not an invitation just to swing on a trapeze in front of children, but Dick went too far in his despair. “I need money”, – was his fair answer. "A lot of money", — and the new acquaintance nodded with understanding.  
— Let's try it! We still have some funds left. Moreover, this month I’m making a new performance and I expect to make more money on it than usual.  
He went in the hall to check his bag: his training leotard smelled of sweat and should have been washed, but rehearsals followed one another leaving too little time for the uniform to dry. There was no spare one.  
— I’m just worried sick every time you go there… — Mary muttered from the kitchen and he walked over to her in his boots to kiss her good-bye.  
— I always work with good safety equipment, Ma. 

"Thank God, she can't come and see," – flashed through his head. He performed without any safety equipment at all, with the most dangerous tricks possible. “Mania Circus”, the organization he was invited to, specialized in "thrills." The lives of the artists were insured for a large sum and the customers spared no expense, watching the performances with antique ecstasy – what if this time someone would get hurt? This did happen, adding a new flavor to the show.

—

Having philosophically skipped his bus, Dick bought coffee from the vending machine at the bus stop – unfortunately, they didn't sell milkshakes. The road from home to a warehouse in the suburbs converted into rehearsal facilities was the only time in his schedule when he felt free.  
The industrial zone was crowded with people unloading a minibus and carrying boxes around. A lone guy in a frayed leather jacket over a sweatshirt with a red hood thrown over his head was smoking independently near the familiar door. His gloomy look gave away another candidate for participation in risky shows — casting never stopped. Well, those who are about to die salute you!

—

The iron door swung open, almost hitting Dick in the face and letting out a flow of warm and noisy air. The owner of their dubious enterprise came out into the street and immediately embraced him with a benevolent gesture.  
— Richard! — A heavy hand patted his back so hard that he nearly coughed. — Is our little star ready to shine for us?  
Last time, with a similar cheerful mood, he informed that the second acrobat had died during training, so it was better not to go into the gym. Shortly before that — that the customer's wishes had changed so Dick had to work naked in a club full of people, and at the end of the performance they would also throw pudding at him.  
— Today we will start rehearsing a performance which is almost tailor-made for you!  
A joyous melody interrupted the conversation. The man immediately stepped aside making way for his assistant, a former circus athlete whom Grayson liked much better.  
— Mr. Cobblepot is calling, — he muttered through his teeth before accepting the call.  
Dick groaned pointedly. Performances at the “Iceberg” night club owned by Oswald Cobblepot were always the riskiest and the craziest ones. And the most expensive.  
Inside, in the training hall, most of the equipment and decorations had already been rearranged to clear an area in the corner: the floor was covered with mats, and several hangers were assembled under the ceiling. A warm wave passed through his body, urging him to lick his lips – something impressive was about to happen. Each new performance was a challenge and he always came out victor, learning one crazy trick after another. And all this was for the sake of a climax, a performance during which the artist turns from a toy into an idol for a few minutes, which the audience will watch with admiration and excitement.

Circus taught empathy better than any drama did: a performer literally walked on the edge of his fate in front of the audience, forcing them to clench their fingers and then fall against the soft backs of their chairs in the exhaustion of catharsis.  
— Start with the bad news, — Dick said, noticing an absent smile on the lips of the other person, and he nodded:  
— Are you familiar with Japanese art of shibari, Richard?  
So, the idea of the performance was as follows: a trapeze artist was tied in a certain way so that he could not move and then suspended from the ceiling entangled with narrow ribbons and with the loop of the main suspender in his hand. The second participant of the performance should cut the slings with shots in a certain order, giving the acrobat more and more freedom, which he –  
— What the hell? — Grayson got tensed. — It's not that easy to cut the rope with a shot. He'd more likely shoot me!  
— We’ll have to make hidden inserts in the slings that would break from bullets… — somebody said calmly behind him and, turning around, Dick saw the guy in the red hood again. He met his gaze with a frown. His long bangs fell in stiff strands across his eyes.  
— This will make the structure less secure. What's the ceiling height?  
— Thirteen meters.  
Oh. The height of a four-story building. He will be bound and will not even be able to tuck himself up.

—

He remembered the yellow sand curled up in bloody folds, the helplessly broken figure of his father and his outstretched, twitching hand, each finger on which moved separately. It looked unnatural, and it seemed to little Dick that Papa was about to gather his body somehow and walk towards him with the lopsided gait of a monster from a horror movie.  
He got scared, burst into tears and ran to Mary, who was able to crawl away and sit up. Her head was white like plaster of those cheap hollow statues used in some performances to create a "classic" atmosphere. Only her mouth moved, repeating: "It's all right, all right, I'll just rest for a minute."

—

Several times Grayson has heard morbid talks from other artists that it would be a good idea to die during performance so that relatives could get six-figure insurance. He himself had never seriously considered such a thing.  
— You haven't met each other yet, have you? This is Jason, a virtuoso shooter and your partner. This is Richard, the aerialist.  
— Dick, — Richard corrected, and Jason snorted.

The first rehearsal was more of a discussion than action, but after a few hours they were able to tie the mannequin correctly. Grayson looked down at the rubber body covered by a hundred vivid red knots that ran along the spine, along the arms tied behind the back and along the legs bent grotesquely at the knees. It looked beautiful, but his fears were taking more and more definite forms: what if his hands got cramped and he couldn’t hold on at the right moment? For "weak points" they used plastic "eights" — wouldn’t they just break on their own, dropping the immobilized artist on the marble floor of the "Iceberg"?  
— Are you sure there shouldn't be a girl in this place?  
— The customer wanted a male acrobat.  
What kind of crazy girl had come up with the most difficult and risky performance he has ever participated in? The doll was slowly rising, and Dick felt for it as if it were a fellow gymnast. Jason fired lazily, in an offhand manner, his posture showing no sign of tension or nervous strain, but the plastic fastenings cracked and funny flattened bullets fell on the mats. Everything will be serious at the performance, with no air guns.  
Other artists put aside what they were doing or rehearsing to see how the experiment would end. The mannequin came down swaying limply, the cut slings hanging down in an untidy fringe. "Pathetic," Grayson remarked, thinking through the necessary moves and elements.  
His performance partner did everything perfectly, but Dick wouldn't trust him to knock an apple off his own head. Because if it were up to him, he wouldn't trust anyone to do it.

— It was easy with the dummy, — Jason chuckled as the artificial body touched the floor. – While people, even when tied up, tend to move, which increases the chance of accidentally shooting them. Think about it, Dicky!

—

With each run Dick trusted his partner's skill more and more. Jason had never made a mistake, but vague voices in his head whispered that one day he would definitely miscalculate; it must happen according to the probability theory. And of course it will happen when the mistake is crucial.  
As for the rest, working with Jason was unbearable: his edge jokes amped the tension up to the limit. During the last rehearsal Dick was hanging from the ceiling, trying to relax: the ropes made it difficult to breathe and his muscles went numb.  
— Look at how cute you are now! — Jason commented, and it was impossible to just ignore his mocking voice. — So defenseless, and completely at my mercy.  
He laughed as the shot shattered one of the fastenings, and Grayson rolled over with a practiced move, stretching out his unfettered legs. Impotence beat in his chest, he clenched his teeth and when he was back on the floor, the first thing he did was pull his hand back and hit the guy with all his might in the chin from below. A pleasant wave rolled from his knuckles to shoulder. The next blow was caught by Jason grabbing his arm under the elbow and twisting it behind his back.  
Strength and flexibility would have helped to get out, but Dick didn't want to risk a shoulder injury on the eve of the performance. He was released almost immediately, but his anger at his partner had reached a critical point and was bubbling before his eyes in red and orange splashes.  
— I'm sick of your stupid jokes, — snapped Dick narrowing his eyes into the guy's startled face. – I'm not at all happy about having to dangle under the ceiling to the delight of gangsters. My parents fell down during a much less dangerous performance and I just need money for their treatment, and you…  
A confused, guilty expression crept over the other guy's face. Dick felt bitter and unpleasant: he freaked out so stupidly and blurted out all his troubles as if he needed pity...  
— I'm sorry, I didn't know… — for the first time Jason’s voice didn't sound mocking or arrogant but rather very shocked. What, he didn't have any tragic background? He just liked to shoot people? — Let’s have a drink?  
It would be worth agreeing as such revelations often set the stage for a good friendship. But Grayson felt incredibly empty as if all his insides had been replaced with cotton. He wanted to go home, slip on tiptoe past his mother, who was sleeping in the living room, get into his bed and lie there, reveling in the aimless time.  
— How about we just deliver a good show tomorrow and never see each other again?  
— As you wish, — Jason shrugged his shoulders and turned on heels to leave the room.

—

They had arrived two hours before the event, but guys in leather jackets and balaclavas were already running around the club. Dick had no doubt that the audience would be gangsters and their sympathizers, but this time the party was apparently going to be attended by respectable people.  
A duo of exhausted comperes in white jackets were already sitting in the dressing room, pondering how to turn a gang of criminals into "boys and girls". As soon as Grayson took off his jacket, two half-naked ladies ran into the two-by-four room.  
— You can't get to the mirror in the ladies’ room, — one of them explained wearily. Mr. Cobblepot's voice, angry and discordant, came from the corridor — he was swearing passionately at someone.  
Their act was lost in the middle of the program, after the warm-up and the first break for drinking and informal socializing, followed by striptease and usual night entertainments for adults. In other words, their performance was destined to become the high spot of the evening.

—

Being kept waiting was wearing him down, accumulating tension in his joints. Dick walked around the room stretching his legs, waving his arms, prolonging the warm-up. Jason stuck to the wall in silence and looked quite indifferent, but his eyes glittered nervously. A couple times he took a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket, looked at it and put it back.  
— Go have a smoke already!  
It might have been strategically correct to remain silent after the last night's spat, but Dick could no longer bear it.  
— I don't want to leave you here alone, — he said tensely.  
— What's going on?  
Grayson has rarely been interested in details that were not directly related to his performances. It helped him to keep believing that he was an artist, not just an animator for big kids.  
— Are you serious? The birthday of the Black Mask, the Crime King of Gotham.  
— The King, for real? We're going to be popular, man!  
Jason looked at him with sympathy and sadness. One of the comperes poked his head through the door, a group of dancers had gathered in the corridor behind him.  
— Time, guys. Get ready.

—

Dick felt feverish: soon, soon. Any performance was important in itself as a subject of circus art, simple and complex at the same time, able to affect even the most inexperienced minds. Grayson kicked off his loose pants and slipped into a pair of black and blue leggings. His torso should have been left naked, which was embarrassing and irritating. The "virtuoso shooter" covered his face with a red half-mask.  
Jason was tying knots quickly, almost professionally. Dick felt the soft red lines enclosing his body in a flexible cage. A wave of sweet numbness rolled through the relaxing muscles. One of the ropes caught his nipple causing a sharp exhalation, a warm feel on the cheeks and a hum of understanding from his partner.  
Somebody knocked at the door when the artist was lying face down on two chairs put together, with his elbows fixed behind his back and his legs bent and bound. Jason picked him up in his arms, his immobilized body rolling slightly, and Grayson nuzzled against the collar of his jacket, which smelled good of leather and aftershave. It was quiet and comfortable and he wished Jason would just take him to bed and leave him to sleep with a blanket over him instead of —  
The corridors were brightly lit and echoing, but the hall was completely dark. Dick was laid on the cold floor carefully, almost tenderly. Snap hooks clicked behind his back, the suspension loop was fastened on one of his bound hands, secured and tightened, and then —  
he felt warm trace of a kiss between his shoulder blades before his partner said into the micro: "Lift up". And the slings dragged the aerialist up without giving him time to think about the blessing.

—

The first notes of music written exclusively for this performance began: a melodious beginning was to be followed by hard electronic rhythms. A spotlight flashed directly in front of his face, illuminating the shooter below with a red beam. A half-dressed girl brought him a gun on a gold serving platter. How vulgar!  
The first two shots will partially restore his mobility, and he will be able to focus on his dance which he tried to fill with power elements. This was the essence of modern circus: nihilism, playing with death, constant challenge to one’s capabilities —  
— sharply screeched the intro of an electric violin, and the sound filling the hall was replaced by the voice of a compere:  
— Our birthday boy wants to say a few words before this performance!  
This remark sounded grotesquely cheerful; the guy’s nerves apparently were at their breaking point. A man in a white suit and a strange black helmet that covered his head completely easily climbed up to the stage — Dick could not see the details from above.  
Was it really that hard to speak before anyone is lifted up to the ceiling?  
— I am happy to be surrounded today by so many good people! — He began, emphasizing this "good people" with an aggressive increase in intonation. — Now we are all eager to witness the highlight of this evening — a performance which I invented myself.  
Oh, so it was this man who insisted on a male gymnast! The audience clapped wildly in the dark, and the Black Mask walked over to Jason and put an arm around his shoulders. The “birthday boy” started to irritate.  
— And I would like to participate in it myself!

— I'm afraid we have used all our ropes already.  
Jason's voice sounded arrogant, but to Dick, who was used to his constant banter, it was obvious that his partner was nervous. He himself could feel the icy clot of horror rolling around inside his stiff body, leaving a wet trail.  
— Then I'll do the shooting, — the crime boss said smugly reaching out for the gun, but Jason wasn't about to hand it over.  
— No.  
— Come on, give it to daddy. Nothing is going to happen.  
The man clearly enjoyed everything that was happening: either fancied himself a sniper or just wanted to dilute the alcohol with blood a little. As if there weren't enough murders in his daily life!  
— We discussed this with your master. If I shoot your friend, I'll just pay compensation.  
He raised his head to the box, where Grayson saw his employer nodding in agreement. "Compensation for death" has always been a key pillar of such enterprises. The artists received a lot of money for such risks and the organizer had enough connections to keep the matter quiet. But this was the first time the trade in human lives had been so blatant.  
— It's a very risky trick, and we spent a lot of time preparing it, — said Jason, and Dick admired his stubbornness. He felt pity for the performance they had worked at for so long, complicated, perverse but beautiful in its own way.  
Jason threw out his hand with the weapon and –  
Even if there was any sound, it faded before reaching the ceiling. Black Mask spread his hands.  
— Do you think me an idiot?  
So the gun wasn't loaded? And how was he going to...? Dick exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure. After all, he was just a decoration in someone else's drama.  
— Your presence at my party is the best gift I could get, especially since I’d never get any other from you. Ladies and gentlemen, — «the birthday boy» swept the room with a slow, solemn gesture, — I want to introduce you to a special guest!  
Great, so they both did know each other! Dick’s fingers and toes began to tingle, and his enforced stillness in this explosive situation was maddening. He tensed and relaxed his muscles, twitching his shoulders and hips, hoping to loosen the soft grip of the ropes.  
Jason lunged at the Black Mask, but the criminal missed one punch and caught him in a neck lock. Dick looked down at their athletic embrace and the way his partner's head twitched as he struggled to free himself from the grip. The stiff back in the white jacket was taking up more and more space.  
No one interfered, and there was something savage and primeval about it: a slow, tense struggle between two men in front of a silent crowd, a ritual showdown. Jason’s hand flashed, he obviously tried to drag the opponent with him into the fall. A gunshot banged loudly in the solemn silence and the crime boss jumped back with surprising ease. All the floodlights went on and flared in sharp white, so he had to close his eyes.  
A group of armed men in black rushed through the door, starting the commotion below: pandemonium, noise, shouting and gunfire. White spots swam in front of his eyes, the heat from the incandescent lamps crept down his cheeks. The restraints around his legs began to give way, increasing his chances of survival.  
— Dicky!  
At first it seemed as if he had just accidentally picked out a familiar set of sounds in the surrounding chaos, but Jason's desperate voice continued to call out:  
— Dicky!  
He was balancing on the railing of one of the boxes — God, how did he even get there? — raising his hand with another gun taken out of nowhere. It was bitter and sad: no matter how confident his partner was, hitting a small piece of plastic at such an angle and from such a distance was —  
— the first bullet swung the rope system slightly, disappearing into the darkness. The second one broke one of the fastenings, and Grayson let out an admiring sigh. The second and third fastenings fell apart with an interval of barely a second, and the gymnast started sinking down, swinging on the ropes like a spider in a train. Hot tingles were running down his now free legs.  
Two more shots were fired. This moment should have been the climax of the performance, but there was no time to dwell on it — the last fastening has snapped.  
He went down at an increasing rate of free fall, the sling with the loop, which he held fast with his right hand, was twice as long as the other suspensions. It was planned to create an illusion that the performance went wrong, and the artist fell down.  
Abrupt stop at the lower point gave pain to his shoulder, his body habitually moved to a horizontal position. The guy hanging in the air would have been an easy target if anyone had cared. But he might as well land on the floor next to the door. There seemed to be a fire exit in the corridor.  
Jason jumped down, having barely kept his balance. He swayed, clutching his right shoulder, and without thinking Grayson went into a somersault to get close to him.  
— Perfect, — said the other one with a forced, frightening smile. — Let's get out of here.

—

Dick recovered himself in the tangled streets of the old city. Shivering and disheveled, they sat under the plastic roof of a bus stop. Why was he wearing Jason's jacket? Never mind. It was raining, and a layer of water covered the cobblestones, which glistened like varnished parquet. Cut-glass lanterns shone blurrily against the night sky.  
— Well? — Jason asked, throwing his injured arm over Dick’s shoulder. — Your place or mine?  
Dick chuckled. He was in high spirits, which was unusual after all he had been through, breathing in the cold air with his mouth wide open like a dog that ran a mile, and rubbing his hands through his wet hair. His head was spinning with adrenaline, and he didn't want to go home at all.  
— I told my parents I'd be out all night.  
His thoughts of his parents immediately switched him to a minor key, and he went sad and silent: he lost his job while they had already prepaid for an appointment with that German doctor.  
— I killed him, — said Jason, who was still rocking on his wave.  
— What?  
— The Black Mask, Roman Sionis.  
— I'm glad you've solved your problems.  
It was hard to tell what had outweighed in his answer: fatigue or anger. His partner, who had snapped out of his ecstasy, looked offended and perplexed. Did he expect to be applauded for killing a man? This guy had rehearsed, chatted with Dick and worked over the performance with him, knowing full well that the undertaking was doomed!  
— Do you think of anyone but yourself?! — Jason was so easy to peel off his smile, forcing him to show his real emotions. — A dead employer is unlikely to pay me!  
He anticipated a scornful response: "All you care about is money." Frank recognition of his material needs has always been the best way to collect a couple of sanctimonious statements. But the guy let out a sharp breath, hugging him tightly:  
— I'll pay. Think of it as of compensation.  
— Twenty thousand dollars? Are you a millionaire?  
Whatever he did for a living, his activities were unlikely to be labeled "good deeds". But who cared where the money came from, if it could help his father?  
— Like you, I take money from criminals. I just don't dance in front of them, but act more directly.  
Dick felt the urge to throw off the other’s hand, but Jason was injured: there was a bloody furrow over his shoulder. His thoughts were scattered and confused, and a quote from one of the wagons of the Hailey Circus flashed into his mind justifying his actions:  
— A good circus is an oasis of Hellenism in a world that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be beautiful.  
A very strange phrase, if you think about it: on the one hand, their performances were indeed focused on visual and sensory perception, not on rational one; on the other — one might think that circus performers do not have to think.  
— This is Wilde.

The rain stopped just like music during a performance, and few drops splashed dully into the puddles – blams! blams! Headlight beams stretched across the pavement in copper-colored waves. Life went on, and mad, vague hopes gathered in his heart. In TV series the police always wrapped a shock survivor in a blanket, and now it wouldn't go amiss either. It would be as well to go to a safe place, to attend to the injured man, to eat something and to sleep a little and to make up their minds about what to do next in the morning.

— Did he write about circus? I didn’t know.  
— Essay "London Models". I read it because I had the complete works.  
How funny it all turned out! They were searched for, gangsters were prowling all over Gotham, but the bus stop became a crystal house where they could hide to talk about books.  
— Just a collection of types, — Jason continued, — but filled with infinite love for men.

Dick slowly shook his head, closing his eyes. Strange, disordered fragments were collected in a single chain, leading to the only possible assumption that –  
"Hanging there, so defenseless, and completely at my mercy".  
— that —  
Fingers quickly, easily entwine the body with patterns of ropes.  
— that —  
His partner carries him, bound, along the corridor, holding him gently and carefully.  
Warm lips touch the skin between his shoulder blades.  
“With infinite love for men”.

Euphoria clouded his mind again, and even the dim streets seemed nicer than usual. A gleaming yellow new-model bus with a flattened and oblong muzzle approached the stop slowly.  
"If it's an offer, I’ll take it" — Dick said, licking the guy's wet neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! I apologize for errors and inaccuracies.  
> I tried to translate my text into English from Russian, it was an interesting and challenging experience.  
> Thanks to my dear Anna Cat for help and advice!


End file.
